


Goodbye, Old Man

by TheTetrarch



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Angst, Feels, Gen, Minor Character Death, Violence, World War One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTetrarch/pseuds/TheTetrarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 1st, 1917, and The Spine, Rabbit and The Jon are returning to their billets after an horrific day. They end up having to make a very difficult decision.</p><p>WARNING: Full of angst and feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Old Man

** GOODBYE, OLD MAN **

**December 1st, 1917 – Fins, Nord-du-Calais, France**

The weather was cold that day. It had turned from freezing rain and wind the night before into solid ice and mud. The ridges on the dirt road were iron-hard, boots and hooves ringing strikes on frozen ground.

A small stream of U.S. Army wagons headed back along the road to Fins, returning from the bloody battleground of Gouzeaucourt, back from seeing action for the first time against determined German troops. They had fought with rifle, bayonet and spade, these young, untried American soldiers, railwaymen every one, sent to repair lines blown by retreating German engineers and ending up on the front line.

Amid the drift of wagons and troops, three figures trudged resolutely along the side of the road. Two of them had heads bowed with tiredness and their puttees and boots coated with thick mud. They huddled in heavy greatcoats, collars turned up against the biting wind.

The tallest one was limping, a rag tied around his right thigh. It was – surprisingly – stained black instead of red. But the injury didn’t seem to hamper him too much as he walked doggedly along the rutted country road.

The second soldier walked stiffly beside him. He too was tall, at least six feet in height, and he hunched his shoulders, shoving heavily gloved hands into his coat pockets.

Dawdling behind them was a small, slender soldier, skipping cheerfully as he followed his companions, giving a delighted exclamation as he spotted a sluggish beetle making its way ponderously over a frozen rut.

All three had their helmets tipped low over their faces, and each of them looked much like any other soldier trying to make his way back to warmth and a hot drink and some much-needed sleep. What made them stand out was the fact that none of the trio carried a rifle, or seemed to have a weapon of any kind. They were here to save lives, not take them.

But no-one stopped to offer them a lift back to headquarters. No-one looked at them. Other soldiers on foot were picked up by comrades in wagons or even on horseback, but no-one offered any aid to these three lone soldiers.

A green gleam shone from beneath the helmet of the tallest soldier.

“Looks like we’re on foot for the duration,” he said, his voice pleasant and deep.

“Well, golly-gee, Th’Spine – ya _think_??” his comrade said, the sarcasm made even more succinct by a faint New Jersey accent.

“You’d think saving lives instead of taking them would make a difference, wouldn’t you?” The Spine answered bitterly. Shoving his helmet back he squinted, his metallic riveted face gaunt in the dull winter light. “How many did we save today, Rabbit? Twenty? Thirty?”

Rabbit looked up at his friend.

“Forty-two. Includin’ a couple a’ Germans. Not bad for a day’s work, huh.”

His face was arresting, with copper plates shifting into a quirky grin and mismatched optics glowing blue and green, full of humour. He had only recently been fitted with a lower jaw, just before they had left home with the American Expeditionary Force, so now he was having fun using it as often as he could. His ‘quirky grin’ as he liked to call it, with its odd, peg-like porcelain teeth, was a happy discovery.

“When we get back to our billet, I’ll have a look at that leg. Damn’ snipers,” Rabbit continued. “Bullet probably clipped an oil-line or three.”

The Spine winced. Rabbit’s care-giving was not known for its gentleness, however well intentioned.

“Don’t worry about it. When we get back The Jon’ll take care of it. He’s had the training too, remember.”

Rabbit’s almost skeletal head tic’d slightly to one side, something that was happening with increasing regularity. The Spine worried about it. Rabbit was his older brother, automatons though they all were, and Rabbit’s chassis build wasn’t as hardy as his own. He malfunctioned easily, and the bitterly cold weather played havoc with his copper joints, the metal having a tendency to become brittle and break.

The Spine’s greatcoat and uniform covered a series of retractable smoke-stacks down his back, modified and shortened before he and his brothers had been sent to France. He really didn’t need the warm greatcoat … it was just an attempt to blend in. He chose normality – or whatever passed for normality in this hell-hole – to comfort. The removal of his greatcoat, uniform jacket and shirt in the evening, no matter where he was, enabled him to allow his system to work as it should. Although concealing his smoke stacks did have a tendency to make him grouchy.

“Eh,” he grunted to himself, deciding to begin with the grouchy earlier than usual.

“Oh, c’mon Spine!” Rabbit looked up at his brother, grinning eerily. “We made it, buddy – w-we ain’t dead yet, which is somethin’. Stop bein’ such a grumpy-butt.”

The Spine sighed, a small vent of steam trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing to be happy about – we got more of this tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that, probably.”

Rabbit pouted, another discovery now that he had a mandible and rudimentary lips.

“Jeez, Spine – stop bein’ so cheery, why dontcha?”

“Pest.” The Spine grumbled.

“Ain’t I just, though!” Rabbit retorted mischievously, poking The Spine in the side with a skinny be-gloved metal finger.

The Spine allowed a tiny smile to rise at the corner of his mouth, despite feeling grumpy. Rabbit just had the knack of pulling him out of a funk.

He turned awkwardly as he walked and called out to the small brassold automaton who trailed in their wake.

“C’mon, The Jon – keep up!  We want to get back to the billet sometime _before_ Christmas … and stop with the skipping, will ya? It looks weird!” The Spine sighed and shifted painfully as he trudged along, his injured leg bothering him more than he would admit. “As if we don’t look weird enough already,” he added under his breath.

The Jon’s golden face-plates slid gently into a sweet smile, and his innocent blue optics shone quietly, a small oasis of calm on this winter day.

“OH! But I _like_ skipping! And I found a _beetle_!!”

The Spine sighed. Rabbit just widened his eerie grin and turning, he waved at The Jon as the little robot scampered along trying to keep up.

They walked on for another mile or so in the waning light of this December day, ignored by most and the occasional target of abuse by one or two soldiers who treated the robots the same way they probably treated black people back home. Rabbit just tried to laugh it off and The Jon didn’t even seem to notice, but The Spine … he felt the taunts and jibes that came from the sneering, vicious faces. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he just lowered his head and tramped on.

As they drew closer to Fins, a small village that was by now nothing more than ruins after the German bombardment, they heard a commotion ahead of them, just around a shallow bend in the road behind some trees blasted to pieces by shell fragments. The scars on the trees were fresh, and a bombed-out farmhouse stood stark against the glowering sky.

Beside the road was devastation.

The remains of a 75mm field gun and its crew lay shattered beside the road, its team of six horses ripped to pieces by shrapnel from the shell of a German howitzer. Only one member of the gun crew was alive and was being tended to by a small group of American soldiers who had arrived on the scene.

Some of the soldiers were gently lifting their dead comrades from the wreckage and from beneath the carcasses of their mounts, laying out the bodies in a neat line and covering them respectfully with jackets and coats. The survivor was being treated by a field medic. One of his legs was gone at the thigh, and the bloody stump had been tied off and roughly bound with field dressings. The man was screaming.

The three automatons hurried as fast as they could, The Spine’s injured leg hampering him a little, making him flinch as he strode forcefully towards the soldiers who were trying to move what remained of the field gun.

The soldiers started in surprise when they saw the automatons, one or two of them grimacing as they took a step away from the damaged gun carriage.

“Let me in there boys … where do ya want it?” said The Spine as he caught hold of what was left of the axle. The soldiers just stared. The Spine shook his head in dsgust and began to haul the wrecked gun carriage out of the road.

“I’ll go see if I can help out w-with that hurt soldier.” Rabbit’s smile had faded to grim determination. “Jon, maybe you can help with movin’, uh … m-movin’ the gun crew an’ makin’ sure they’re looked-after until we c’n get ‘em buried.”

The Jon stood and stared at the silent, still figures lying under coats and blankets at the side of the road. Two more soldiers were struggling to ease the shattered body of a young man out from beneath his horse, his limbs tangled in harness and his slight frame soaked with blood and filth.

“Oh. Oh gosh,” he whispered to himself as Rabbit turned away to his task. The Jon wasn’t alarmed by death and destruction. He’d seen too much of it in his young life, and he knew that there was nothing he could do to help save these men. All he could do was treat their remains with dignity and respect, and help their comrades-in-arms bury them.

But the horse was still alive.

It was a stocky bay gelding with a lot of hair around its heels … a draft horse, with heavy muscled quarters and powerful shoulders and back.

It was obvious the animal was dying. It had a badly broken leg and its side was riddled with shrapnel, but still it struggled to get to its feet, despite its agony. Its dead outrider was pinned beneath its bulk, and the animal’s struggles were preventing the retrieval of the body. One of the soldiers pulled out his revolver and tried to aim at the beast’s head, but the gelding threshed too much for the man to be able to take aim properly.

“Dammit!” the young soldier said, “goddam animal!” His revolver wavered unsteadily.

“Let me help!” called The Jon, who ran to the animal’s side and slid down to sit beside the distressed horse’s head.

He reached out and caught hold of the horse’s bridle and laid a hand on the broad forehead, making soft crooning noises.

“What the hell are you??” The soldier frowned, puzzled.

The Jon looked up at him as he tried to quieten the horse. The crippled animal slowly stopped struggling, and The Jon let the big head rest in his lap.

“I can hold him steady,” he whispered to no-one in particular, “you can get the body now.”

The young soldier and his companion looked at each other and then gazed back at The Jon. This strange little being sat on the frozen ground with the dying horse, so they bent to their task, gently untangling the dead soldier from the harness. Pulling the limp body to one side, they managed to lift it and move it to lie beside the rest of the gun crew, straightening shattered limbs and placing a blanket over bloody features.

The Jon sat still, looking into the horse’s wildly rolling dark eyes. The beast was silent apart from heavy, bubbling breathing, its winter coat dark and drenched with sweat and blood.  The Jon stroked heaving sides and then he laid his hand on the animal’s neck.

“I know,” he murmured. “It hurts. It hurts so much. I wish … I wish I could make you all better. But I can’t, you know that.”

“Hey, Th’Jon.”

Rabbit appeared beside him, lowering himself gingerly down to sit beside the little robot.

The Jon gazed at his big brother with wide blue optics.

“His name’s Bob,” he said quietly.

Rabbit laid a gloved hand on The Jon’s shoulder and nodded.

“He told ya, huh, buddy?”

“Uh-huh.” The Jon’s optics turned back to the dying horse. “He’s screaming in his head, Rabbit! He says he wants ta go home an’ see the trees an’ the hills an’ … an’ … go back to working in the fields and bringing in all the corn an’ getting lots of bread from the farmer’s children … “ The Jon’s optics filled with oily tears. “He … he just wants ta go back home. Can we help him? Please?”

Rabbit shrugged, his chassis tic’ing slightly under the heavy greatcoat, his joints stiff with the cold.

“I … I dunno, Th’Jon. We ain’t got any way of helpin’ him, ya know. An’ … an’ ya know he ain’t gonna make it, dontcha?”

The Jon gazed down into agony-filled dark eyes.

“But … all he wants is ta go home, Rabbit!”

Rabbit nodded sadly.

“You can sense him in your head, huh? You can feel it.”

“Y-Yeah,” The Jon said, grief beginning to tinge his words. “I don’t know why, an’ I don’t know how … but … but I … I …” His voice tailed off as he let out a soft sob.

Rabbit reached out and gently touched Bob’s velvet nose, the horse’s muzzle covered in pink, frothy blood. He saw the animal’s worn teeth and the swath of grey hairs over the eyes and down the long, plain head.

“Hey there, ol’ fella. Hurtin’, huh? N-Now, don’t you worry … Th’Jon’ll take care of ya until we can find a way to let you rest quietly an’ you won’t hurt no more, alright?”

The old horse seemed to understand and his breathing settled a little, the quivering muscles relaxing.

The Jon turned despairing eyes to his big brother.

“Ya gotta make his pain go away, Rabbit. Let him go home. Let’m run free. Let’m be a young horse again!”

Rabbit looked over at The Spine as he allowed a small puff of steam to escape from his cheek vents. The silver automaton had moved the gun carriage out of harm’s way, his superior strength easily managing the heavy limber and wheels. The field gun itself was nothing more than a huge lump of twisted metal, yet to The Spine it was no more difficult than moving one of the picnic tables back home at Walter Manor.

A group of soldiers stood, open-mouthed, and watched as The Spine cleared away wreckage and debris, leaving the way open for the field ambulance to access both the injured soldier and his dead comrades.

After he finished the job, The Spine turned back towards Rabbit and The Jon, walking painfully towards his brothers.

An unidentified voice muttered within the group of soldiers.

“Freak!”

The Spine hunched his shoulders, but made no sign that he had heard.

Rabbit’s chilled joints creaked as he struggled to his feet, and he walked a few yards to meet The Spine, who was on the point of limping past him until Rabbit’s spindly fingers caught at the sleeve of his greatcoat.

“Spine?” he said quietly.

“Not now, Rabbit. I’m not in the mood.” The Spine tried to continue his painful journey towards The Jon. “We have to get going … get back to the billet. It’s been a rotten day and I just want to get some rest.” Green optics glittered bitterly under the rim of his helmet.

“Spine? Wait a minute, will ya? I gots ta ask ya something.’” Rabbit’s mismatched optics clicked out of sync.

The Spine hesitated. Rabbit only blinked like that when he was stressed or worried. He sighed. He really didn’t need Rabbit’s nonsense right now. He loved his brother, but … but … _just … please … not right now, Rabbit_ …

Rabbit knew that The Spine wasn’t exactly feeling generous or sympathetic at this moment in time, but he pressed on regardless.

“Th’ Spine … w-we need a gun. A revolver.”

The Spine stopped dead in his tracks.

“What? Why?”

Rabbit’s steady gaze sent all thoughts of brotherly chastisement via a quick whack upsides the head right out of The Spine’s mind. Rabbit was _serious_. The Spine followed Rabbit’s optics as they turned towards The Jon. He saw the little automaton sitting flat on the ground, arms wrapped around the head and neck of an old, dying battery horse, the beast lying shuddering with pain. The Jon was talking to the animal, soft, gentle, nonsense words, soothing, kind and loving.

“Oh, _jeez_ ,” muttered The Spine. “He’s not going to leave until we do something, is he?”

The corner of Rabbit’s mouth quirked. The Spine couldn’t make out if it was a sympathetic smile, or Rabbit’s version of shared distress.

“Th’ Jon can hear the horse screamin’, Spine. Screamin’ in agony. It’s all Jon can hear in his head. He don’t know w-why, or how, but he _can_. An’ he can’t leave the poor ol’ fella like this.” Rabbit’s optics turned back to The Spine. “An’ neither can I. Can _you_???”

The Spine straightened as well as his wounded leg would allow, and tilted his helmet back on his head. He studied The Jon as he tended to the animal, and he surveyed the devastation and death all around him. He thought for a few moments of the jibes and jeers, the thoughtless disregard for the Walter automatons even though all of them, even HatchWorth, presently helping organise billets and cookhouses back at headquarters, were there to save lives instead of take them.

The horse kicked out spasmodically and The Jon shifted, trying to calm the dying beast, his voice soft and broken.

“Spine? Spine, please help him!” The Jon wept oily tears and he dabbed at them with his sleeve. “He … he didn’t want to be here! He was forced to come here! Just like us!”

And then The Spine knew. He knew what had to be done, because this poor brute of an animal had no choice but to go to war, and he had paid the price and nobody cared. He was just an animal with no rights. Just as The Spine and his brothers really had no rights, no matter that Peter Walter I, Rabbit’s beloved ‘Pappy,’ loved them like sons. His robot sons had been sent to war, just like the human sons and brothers and husbands. But if he or his brothers died, the Colonel would receive no sympathetic letter of condolence. They were robots. They were not human. They were _expendable_.

“I’ll see if I can get someone to put the poor fella out of his misery. If they won’t, I’ll borrow a revolver and do it myself. It’s the least we can do.”

Rabbit nodded, understanding.                            

“Th-Thanks, Spine.”

 

* * *

 

The Spine tried everything he could. He went around every soldier he could find and asked them to help … to spend a minute putting an old, dying horse out of its misery. But the excuses came … sometimes quick and terse, while others were hesitant and ashamed. _We’re here to help humans, not some tin critter … We see dyin’ horses every day, and we can’t waste the bullet … damn’ animal’s near dead anyways …_

For over an hour he tried convincing someone … _anyone_ … to help. To loan him a revolver, just for a moment … _anything_. Just _please show a little humanity, goddammit_!

But no-one helped. They just wanted to get out of there, to make sure their dead and wounded comrades were cared for and they could get back to a hot meal and sleep. Horses died every day. The place was littered with carcasses everywhere they looked, so what made this one any different?

And The Spine really couldn’t blame them. He had seen many soldiers weeping by the side of their dead horse, even risk their lives to make sure their dying steeds were swiftly put out of their pain. But such feelings weren’t in evidence today. It had been a hard day. America’s first losses in this nightmare of a conflict would shock the folks back home. An old, dying horse didn’t really measure up to that.

As the gloom of the late winter day encroached, the automatons were left alone. The stream of soldiers and artillery lessened and then stopped.

The Jon sat with Bob, uncaring of the world around him, his head filled with pain and horror coupled with images of cool woods and sunlight on streams. He could hear a child’s laughter, and he felt the delicious coolth of chilly water as he drank after a hard day’s work on the farm. He felt the soft shift of freshly-ploughed soil under sturdy hooves, and the soothing tug of a brush on shining flanks.

Rabbit sat beside him on a rock, silently watching over his brother and the aged gelding, making sure that The Jon knew he was there and that his brothers loved him.

The Spine desperately looked around for a fallen weapon of any kind, but discovered nothing that was in working order. German howitzer shells, he thought savagely, were thorough in their destruction.

He was about to turn and attempt to get The Jon away from the horse, his intent to somehow break the animal’s neck and end his misery, when he heard the clop of hooves on the iron-hard ground.

“Signore! Signore, can I help?”

Looking around, he saw a neat, dapper figure on a sturdy brown cob riding wearily towards them along the road.

“Sir, I’d be grateful for any help you can give us! Do you have a revolver?” The Spine called out.

Rabbit stood up and joined The Spine as the rider came to a halt and dismounted.

He was a small, neat man with a dark, waxed moustache and gentle brown eyes. It was obvious he wasn’t a soldier, but he wore a warm army greatcoat and puttees over army regulation pants and boots. His saddle carried a large pack, and from one side poked the legs of an artist’s easel. The brown eyes widened as he looked at The Spine and the Rabbit, but to his credit he didn’t comment on these non-human soldiers.

“I … I have a revolver, Signore … but what is it for?” he said in heavily accented English. The man was Italian, The Spine guessed. “Do you not have … how do you say … a gun of your own?”

“Don’t carry ‘em,” Rabbit said. “We save lives – w-we don’t take ‘em.”

The stranger looked around the two automatons and took in the sight of a third robot cradling the head of a dying horse. His eyes softened.

“Ah. Now I see. Now I understand. This old horse … he needs … needs to not suffer any longer, I think.”

The Jon looked up and noticed the little man with the tidy moustache. He sniffed noisily.

“He … he wants to go home,” he repeated.

The man nodded, understanding.

“Would you like me to … to, ah, deal with this, my friend?” he asked The Spine.

The Spine shook his head.

“No sir, if you don’t mind. I said I would do it, and I keep my word.”

The man pursed his lips and nodded again. Unbuttoning his greatcoat, he lifted a heavy revolver out of its holster attached to a Sam Browne belt, and handed it to The Spine, butt first.

“Here. It’s loaded, but the hammer’s resting on an empty chamber.”

The Spine hefted the .45 revolver, and checked the load.

“Thank you. This should do the job quickly and painlessly.” Turning back to The Jon, he limped over to his baby brother and painfully knelt down beside him.

“Jon?” The golden automaton didn’t seem to hear him. The Spine tried again. “Jon?” Blue optics suddenly blinked at him. “Jon, you have to say goodbye now. Bob … you know he’s in pain, and I’m going to send him home. He’ll be at peace. Is that alright?”

The Jon looked at The Spine, and then back down at Bob, the old horse quieting in The Jon’s arms.

“He’s ready, Spine. He knows. He’ll go back to the trees and the woods and the quiet, safe places.” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on Bob’s forehead. “Goodbye, Bob. It’’ll be all right now. The Spine’ll take good care of ya.”

And easing himself out from beneath Bob’s head, he gently let the weary animal rest quietly on the bloody ground. Standing up, The Jon walked silently over to Rabbit and hugged him, Rabbit wrapped him in his arms, and nodded to The Spine. It was time.

The Spine cocked the hammer, and pressed the barrel against the hollow just behind Bob’s ear. He hesitated for a moment, and leaned forward, stroking the matted hair on the horse’s quivering neck.

“Goodbye, old man,” he murmured, and pulled the trigger.

The single shot rang out in the chill evening, and then it was over.

Standing with difficulty, his leg almost giving out on him as he struggled upright, the Spine steadied himself and walked back to the stranger, handing back the revolver. He saw tears in the man’s dark gaze.

“Thank you,” he rasped, “It means a lot to The Jon that the animal didn’t suffer any more.”

The man smiled sadly.

“I think, Signore, that it meant a lot to _all_ of you.”

The Spine’s mouth tic’d.

“Yeah. I suppose it did. It does,” he corrected himself. “By the way – we don’t know your name. I know it would ease The Jon’s mind if he knew who the kind man was that helped Bob.”

The man frowned, puzzled.

“Bob?”

“The horse. His name was Bob.”

“Ah,” said the stranger, “This Bob was his pet – his horse, yes?”

Just for a moment, The Spine thought about explaining that The Jon could hear the horse in his head … all of the pain, the suffering … the memories. But no. It would be too … _difficult_.

“Yeah … Bob belonged to The Jon,” he lied, hating the fact that he had to do so.

The stranger stuck out his hand, and The Spine shook it.

“My name is Fortunino Matania. I’m an artist. I am here to …” he struggled for the words, “… to study and record this terrible war. I have a commission to fulfil for the Blue Cross. They are trying to help animals serving in the army. So I understand your friend’s pain.”

The Spine smiled.

“That’s good … yes indeed … “ All of them had seen the heaped bodies of dead horses and mules, some of them lying up to their necks in mud-filled holes, others blown to bits by shells. So many lives, animal and human …

Matania mounted his little cob and looked down at the three automatons.

“I’m glad I could help, my friends. Keep safe. Oh, and I must ask who you are. You three unusual fellows. I must tell my family when I get home about you and your kindness to this poor beast.”

“Us?” said The Spine, his smile widening a little. “Just tell them we’re the Walter brothers.”

And with a casual salute, The Spine returned to the two other robots.

As Matania rode away, he saw The Spine hug his brothers and lead them into the darkness of a frozen night.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, in front of a small fire in a bombed-out hotel and sipping a mug of hot tea, Fortunino Matania took out a small book full of blank pages, and dug out his little box of pencils from his saddlebag.

He thought for a moment, and then he began to draw the outlines of a slight, robotic figure cradling the head of an old, dying horse, set in the ravaged vista of a war-torn land.

* * *

Six weeks later, Fortunino Matania walked up the steps of the Blue Cross Society in Victoria, London, a large artist’s folio tucked under one arm. He looked very different from the time he had met three extraordinary robots on a rutted road in a nightmare of a place in France. He was neatly groomed and wearing a tidy, well-cut suit. He looked rested and well, and the receptionist smiled as she saw him.

“Well, good afternoon, Signore Matania! Go straight in! The committee is waiting for you!”

He was ushered into a large room filled with a small group of well-to-do men poring over a number of poster designs. The posters all carried images of horses and mules working on the front line, working in harness, pulling artillery guns and doing many other essential jobs that went with running a very expensive and bloody war. They all turned as Matania walked into the room and closed the big, oaken door behind him.

“Ah, Matania!” said a bluff well-padded gentleman with an expensive fob watch and a handlebar moustache. “Let’s see what you have for us!”

Wordlessly, Matania laid the folio on a highly-polished table and untied the binding. Opening it, he carefully pulled out a painting and laid it in full view on the table. The committee crowded around, studying the image.

There were murmurs of shock and pity, and also of appreciation.

“My word,” the bluff gentleman said softly. “My word, Matania. That’s it. That is exactly what we’ve been looking for. Gentlemen,” he said to his comrades, “I think you’ll agree?”

The nods and smiles gave him his answer. He turned to Fortunino Matania, eyes bright.

“What do you call it? Does it have a title?

Matania looked at the painting thoughtfully. The figure had had to be changed, obviously. Having a robot in uniform instead of a human would not have worked, he thought sadly. But the rest of it … well, it was more or less as he had remembered it.

“Its title? Well it was given to me by a very extraordinary young man. In fact, by three very special brothers.”

“Yes?” said the bluff gentleman. When Matania didn’t answer, he pursed his lips. “Well, man, spit it out! What d’you call it??”

Matania smiled.

“I call it _Goodbye, Old Man_.”

 

* * *

 

**AUTHOR’S NOTE**

Between one and two million horses and mules lost their lives in World War One. Fortunino Matania was indeed commissioned in 1916 to visit the front and create work for the famous Blue Cross Society, which still exists and continues its work in Great Britain to this day. This image has always meant a lot to me, so I couldn’t resist basing this story on Matania’s beautiful and heart-rending artwork.

I have done my best to fit this into the SPG timeline, but I think I may have played about with canon a little. If I have, please forgive me. It was written not only to get the plot bunny out of my head, but also to fulfil a number of comments about a paragraph in SEVEN POINT EIGHT, when Rabbit talks about this incident and folks wanted to know more. So here it is.


End file.
